just a breath away

On Friday morning we made the very difficult decision to bring Killian to the vet and put him to sleep. It was the hardest decision to make but he was suffering in pain.

The trip in the car got his adrenaline going, so when we arrived he was more energetic than he had been in weeks. He gobbled up treats in the exam room, and he moved around excitedly. We were almost ready to take him home, but we knew it wasn't a true reflection of his health. Yet it made it that much harder to make him lay down so the vet could give him the sedative. Then a few minutes later he administered the overdose of anesthesia, and just like that he was gone. It was very peaceful, but very quick. One minute he was eating a treat, and just a few minutes later he took his last breath.

We stayed with him for a while after. We laid on the floor with him and soaked his fur with our tears. We said sorry. We said we love you. We said we will never forget you. And then we left.

In the car, I felt stunned how easy it was to end such a precious life. Not easy emotionally, but technically the process was easy. It seems that death should be a long drawn out separation. But it's very often not. This made me think of that song by Josh Groban, To Where You Are. He sings that "a breath away is not far to where you are." This gave me comfort when my dad died and it gives me comfort now. Death is just a breath away from where we are here.

And as the song also says, "As my heart holds you just one beat away, I cherish all you gave me everyday." I cherish all you gave me everyday.

making a mess of it

I've realized something about writing a novel. I'm really good at writing a lot of garbage. So far I've nailed down about fifty pages worth of bad dialogue, flat characters and a plot with one giant whole in it. But I'm not discouraged.

This is the way it goes with first drafts. And really isn't this the way it goes in life?  Don't we all kind of make a mess of things before we figure out how to do it better? This is how I feel. I'm constantly making a mess of things. Then out of the mess comes something beautiful. I'm thinking about my kids and all the mistakes I make a zillion times a day. And yet there they are: three perfect creations.

Of course, I know I can't take all of the credit. God gets the credit for giving me my children. And God gets the credit for giving me my talents in life. I've been given these gifts to not only contribute to my community and society, but to grow closer to God. Imagine if I were to sit and write the perfect novel on the first try. What value would there be in that?

I'm writing this book with the complete knowledge that I might fail to write a novel that will be published. I'm also writing it with the belief that something beautiful will come out of it either way.

what I've been doing...

I've been woefully neglecting this blog, I know. All of my writing energy is pouring into my novel. It's wonderfully exciting and frustrating at the same time. I love writing fiction. It's good to be outside of my own head (kind of). Of course, it's me writing, but I'm someone else too. It's therapeutic.

Still writing a novel is less fun than you would imagine. It's hard work and it seems all of my writing flaws are amplified when I try to create things like dialogue, setting and plot. But I've never been so focused on anything in my life. I dream about my story. I hear my character's voice when I'm driving. I steal dialogue from strangers in the grocery store. I'm obsessed.

On the home front, Julia and Elise are taking gymnastics and this has invigorated our winter days with jumping, running and tumbling (even when we are not at the gym). I'm impressed with both of them for their energy and natural ability.

David is talking, sort of. He says ball, bottle, bread, bird, bye, and as you can guess, anything that starts with the letter B. He also says "na, na," which means both "night, night" and his blanket.

Our dog's cancer has spread to his other leg. We're spending our last days with him. I'm in a bit of denial right now. I can't imagine what it will be like without him, and I've decided I'm not going to imagine. I'm staying in the moment with him for as long as I can.

In the moment, that's always a good place to be, and really, it's where I've spent most of my time lately.

"the still point of the turning world"

I've plunged back into writing my novel. Last night I was up late doing some background research, and I got swept away reading about God and the creation of the soul. In the book, The Power of Myth by Joseph  Campbell and Bill Moyers, they talk about how we are made in the image of God. In the last chapter, they discuss the poem "Four Quartets" in which T.S Eliot writes "about the still point of the turning world, were motion and stasis are together, the hub where the movement of time and the stillness of eternity are together. " Campbell interprets this "still point" as the place or moment of our becoming or "the source." This image carried itself through my dreams. For most of the night, I slept soundly--blanketed in a lovely dream about my husband and our romantic love--but then I woke very suddenly when I dreamed that my son drowned in a swimming pool. It was a terrible dream, and my heart ached. Then I remembered the sweetness of the dream from earlier in the night. Perhaps my subsconcious interpreted this image of Eliot's in my dream. Eternal love releases us from the fear of mortal death. The peace this brings is that still point. We remember our original becoming--the source of our existence--God. Stillness and motion together. It seems like such a contradiction and yet makes exact sense.

What do you think?

from Random Thoughts on the Love of God

"Our soul makes a constant noise, but it has a silent place we never hear. When the silence of God enters us, pierces our soul and joins its silent secret place, then God is our treasure and our heart. And space opens before us like a fruit that breaks in two. Then we see the universe from a point beyond space."

- Simon Weil

communion

Yesterday at Church, I was one of the first to take communion (as I sit in the first pew as a choir member). After I returned to my seat, I watched as the rest of the congregation proceeded down the aisles and to the front of the sanctuary to dip their bread in the cup. At the end, our pastor walked over to the Praise Band, and offered them their communion. One at a time, each person stopped playing their instrument so they could receive their symbolic bread and juice. It was one of those moments for me. The beautiful way the music changed when the piano dropped out but then resumed, and then the guitar went silent for a second, and then the bass guitar drifted off. And then all three instruments came together again.

More than any other, it was such a symbol of the theme of the day: the word made flesh. Communion is more than a ritual to enter. It's a tender, loving expression of love and remembrance, and each person can come to the table freely without worry of where they are, or where they have been.  In this very moment, the music stops, and we remember the body and blood of Christ.

a new year

Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt--marvelous error!--
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

- Antonio Machado